Caranthir_

Dear LotC, I am DEINSTITUTIONALISING after having begun my journey here in 2015 at the age of fourteen. I am now twenty-three and, like an inmate of The Shawshank Redemption, struggle to imagine what my life would have been like had I not chanced upon the server. I will briefly write the testament of all that I did before I leave you for good. I started my time here as “TENAKA KHAN” a half dark elf half human directly inspired by a similarly named protagonist of a book series by David Gemmel. Tenaka’s (book) resilience inspired me at a time in my life that I felt adrift and weak. My parents had split acrimoniously a few years earlier. We were the victims of domestic abuse, and briefly homeless. Tenaka was strong; I could be strong too. LotC Tenaka settled in Pompourelia, Oren. I wanted, very sincerely, to be a general of the army. My trackpad had other ideas. As I began reading War of the Roses historical fiction by Philippa Gregory my second character became “EDWARD YORK”, a street rat of Felsen. I chanced on the Druids, spent a lot of time training there. Another chance encounter: Beo Ruric of Norland. Edward settled a little village called Crestholme in Norland with Jentos Blackwood. After Beo’s failed rebellion against Oren little Edward was strung up on the gallows as the last man in Norland. Blood for York. I joined the Norland revival with Narthok as a second son, "NJORD RURIC". The year is 2016. We lose the Siege of Seahelm and retreat into the Dreadlands. Njord is tragically eaten up by a Frost Witch. So sad. This is the year I am groomed by an lotcer 10 years older than me. Thus begins an unhealthy attachment to seeking validation on the craft. It's not all bad though. I start to meet pals I still chat to now. “JOSEPH D’IVREA” — Quartermaster of the Nauzican, servant of the Emperor John III, friend to Johnny “Dragon”. This stuff was massive for me. “LYSTOR ASHFORD DE ARYN”. It is 2017. Human politics is something that interests me a lot more now. Lystor was a Baron in Savoy. Dies in Savoyard Massacre at Johannesburg. I will always remember the sun rise over the Savoy marshes after hours of roleplay on my castle roof. ‘ALEXANDRE DE ARYN” — Lystor’s nephew, fights the Empire. Alexandre was my first “significant” character. I navigate my first experiences in Skype (soon to transition to discord) politics. I start to see events as dictated by people behind the characters. I follow suit as it seemed to be expected of me. Once Marna gets taken over by Renatus I initially become a rebel, moving off to Curon to fight in the war, then shamelessly selling out Curon (which was admittedly on its last legs) to receive a Horen. That was a nasty move. So, finally, “ALEXANDER HOREN”, grandson of the old emperor & founder of the Alstion dynasty. So begins my love affair with that niche. It is 2018. I’m in the emperors privy but I am entirely beholden to court intrigue. Become a moderator and lend my account to Dewper to take modreqs disguised as me. I get an indefinite ban for it. Deserved. I lied about it blatantly and tried crying foul play. As it happens, he was a great moderator. Much better than me. I successfully appeal after a year. “AMADEUS DE ARYN” — Cardinal, Senator, an extension of me and my opinions. I really felt that a LOT of what happened in the game mattered to my life. It is 2020. I play a throwaway character next who becomes Treasurer in Oren, I can’t even remember his name. Favourite character duo: father and son “JAMES ALSTION” and “WILLIAM ALSTION”. Both essentially fight the same fight against the same people. Larping the Jacobites in the wastelands (Alba) and listen to a LOT of Scottish folk songs. This period of my life had a lot of synergy with my IRL university education. William dies fighting at Haverlock. It is now 2022. Here’s where I get sucked in. Take things too seriously. Get burned. I leave for half a year. Very good decision. Should've stopped there. Come back for Aaun foundation. I spend more time in damage control discussions on discord than in game. “IAIN GROMACH” — bit of a throwaway. “OLIVIER ROSIUS”, who does diplomacy with Veletz. Then “EDMUND ALSTION”. I learned a lot about how LotC. Nations are almost entirely legacy maintenance/factionalism. Once you realise this as an NL almost all fun is sucked out of the game. One upping your opponent, getting a dopamine hit on the forums, elaborate conspiracies in group chats—these are the most interesting remaining dynamics. This was one of the darkest periods of my life. My heart pounded from my chest every time I thought about discord. I couldn’t eat properly, I didn’t sleep well. I felt dreadfully alone. I felt cornered. Since I was just a stupid dumb kid, all that had begun to matter was what happened here. I can never get that time back, but I have learned from it. So we come to the end. “TRISTAN TALRAEN”. Salvo stripped it all back for me. I came to realise what fun it is to start from nothing. I am proud of what I did there. I am so grateful for meeting such kind and interesting people. I started getting the tightness in my chest when opening discord in the morning. I say NO MORE. I am leaving. That wasn't really brief, and let's be honest you probably skimmed it. That's okay, it means more to me than it ever will to you. I do not have any more special words of wisdom to offer you and they’d probably be quite boring if I did. As the sentimentalist that I am I will leave you with the following song I'm interested in at the moment. Thank you for the memories, even the bad ones. Goodbye.

THE PEOPLE OF SALVO have today committed to the election of a PRESIDENT OF THE REPUBLIC and members of a CONGRESS to the INFANT REVOLUTIONARY STATE. The former COMMANDER IN CHIEF of the revolution, Tristan Talraen, signalled that he would be RETIRING to his homestead after a life of service to THE PEOPLE in the cause of their realised LIBERTIES and FREEDOMS, and endorsed LEVI SUMMERS for the presidency. Those assembled promised forevermore to discard all vestiges of FEUDALISM and NOBILITY. Tragically, in the process of walking to the site of his ranch, Tristan Talraen fell ill. He was found rested against an oak tree, having begun his journey into the world of MIRTH AND MERRIMENT which awaits all PIOUS CANONISTS at the end of their life in this MORTAL REALM. His last words are thought to have been, as he departed his beloved Salvo for the last time, that this nation would be— “A REPUBLIC, IF YOU CAN KEEP IT.” Ends.

SHATTERING THE RING The Birth of a Republic In the turning of the Great Plane, as the stars trace their paths across the sky and the seasons shift without end, so too do the destinies of Men rise and fall. It is in this ceaseless flow that we beat our oars with the stream of destiny, knowing our place as instruments of a higher will. It is the destiny of all men to one day govern themselves and to take responsibility for their place in the current. It is not for any one man to dictate the fate of others. The Almighty Lord has woven into the very fabric of creation the right to live free from the shadow of Ibleesian tyranny. Yet, freedom without virtue is alike to the fire without warmth; a light that blinds rather than guides, burns rather than protects. Thus, the right of Man to rule themselves must be tempered by our duty to walk the path of the virtuous. Upon this anvil MORAL GOVERNMENT is tempered and the RING OF FEUDALISM shattered forevermore, just as We the People of Salvo have broken the RING OF THE LUBBA. The People of Salvo are agreed: The titles of old are like ashes in the wind, floating from nation to nation. The manner of their movement is no more dignified than a beggar. Titles of nobility are therefore UNRECOGNISED in the Republic. All titles associated with the former state of Lurin are detached from any former weight in law and are to remain as solely personal honorifics. That there shall be a CONGRESS of the FREE CANONIST REPUBLIC entrusted with the highest powers of government, by the consent of the governed. A President of that Congress shall be elected by delegates as a presiding officer. The President’s role is NOT TO GOVERN but to guide Congress and to ensure its will is carried out. Each region of the Republic, once specially marked by a cartographer, will be entitled to send delegates to the Congress, but only verifiable Canonists who swear an oath of loyalty to the Republic shall be allowed to take their seat. For the meantime, the township of Salvo will send six delegates to Congress. When our INFANT REPUBLIC is ready, the People of Salvo will conduct FREE AND FAIR elections to decide their delegates. It is our intention that a CONSTITUTIONAL CONVENTION will one day clarify the election of our HEAD OF STATE. As a state borne of the CRUSADE, the Republic’s army shall be integrated with the Holy Army for the time being. The Republic shall provide recruits and resources to the Holy Army in addition to providing a place to make camp close to the township.

Tristan comes across the grave on one of his walks. He says a quick prayer at the freshly churned mound of dirt. He had not known that Levi Summers had departed for the prismarine city that night. He slept while the deed was done. It would not have been his way, he thinks—Narithen, though a tyrant, did he not deserve trial? He had not felt peace stumbling across the burial site. But the Lubba was dead, and he was not, and so there was only one man left to care.

Proclamation from S A L V O Regarding the War Issued the Year of Our Lord 1998 DECLARATION OF THE REPUBLIC Within the course of nature, the motion of the tide and the change of the seasons are an inescapable promise; in the grand sweep of history, it is necessary that a people pursue that to which the laws of nature entitle them. The rights of the Descendants are dispensed by God and the law. None can be upheld without the divine providence of the Almighty. None can be dispensed without first following in the path set by the Scroll of Virtue. These are the promise of life, justice, and the pursuit of happiness. We hold these truths to be sacred and undeniable, that Virtue can be shared in all corners and creeds; that the Lord God is the fire in the desert and the soft wind which cools it; that turmoil is a test of our spirit from the Lord; that there shall be no peace but His peace. The road to peace and happiness is open to us and we will climb it, not because we believe it is due to us but because it is the indispensable duty of a magistrate to oblige his people to piety and justice. We believe in the ability for all Descendant-kind to gain salvation in the Lord God, as written in the Holy Scrolls, but the will of the Almighty has been made clear. The right to life is imperilled by a sovereign injuriously entrenching his people further and further into conflict. The means are tyrannical and, invariably, the end is depostic. In such a case where the right to life and liberty is imperilled, it is the duty of citizens to discard such governance. The grievances against the Merchant Lord are as follows: The discovery of the existence of a ‘dirty bomb’ planted by dark mages in the prismarine city— The unfettered chaos of the State, including the rise of a warlord in the prismarine city— The repeated inability to defend his constituents against darkspawn marauders, including a Frostwitch attack on Salvo lasting three days— The neglect to answer a request made some years ago to abdicate and repent to prevent violent hostilities against his people— The neglect of his predecessor to cause a Charter proposed by Salvo to be made constituting a free system of government. In every stage we have endeavoured to cause the most peaceful and humble solution: Our letters have not been answered. Our people sleep in fear of marauders, our families live under the shadow of black magic—these are the wages of tyranny. A sovereign thus acting with wanton disregard for the liberty of his peoples acts as a tyrant, and is unfit to rule. When peace is met with silence, action becomes the last refuge of the just. We, therefore, the people of Salvo, solemnly declare the dissolution of our feudal vestiges; and that further we say that no man, or class of men, is entitled to decide on the fate of their fellows, who are by their nature equal and free. Nor shall the people be deprived of uniform government, partitioning this nation recklessly between despots and tyrants. Salvo says no more; not seeking dominion for itself, but to restore order and uphold liberty and safety where the old regime has failed. Impelled by the dictates of sacred duty, it is in obedience to the Almighty that the Serene State of Lurin shall be dissolved, making way for the establishment of the free Canonist Republic. We, the people of Salvo, pledge our lives and stake our prosperity to the cause of this Republic. May Almighty God advance with us in the cause of liberty. WARGOAL: The Republican Revolution of Lurin

"You make yourself worthy of your name, Cedric." Tristan of Salvo patted his friend on the back when he returned from the patrol.

A bird flew into Salvo with the news. An old ranger on the back of a stallion looks out onto the marsh. Tristan, now almost seventy, squints into the horizon. The sun cast long shadows across the plains to the east—lands that once meant neighbours, now branded as heretics. The crusade's call rings in his ears. "A man's got to make his choice someday," He mutters, voice gravelly and dry. He glances down at the hilt of his blade, then out towards the prismarine city beyond. It felt especially heavy in this moment. "Guess I'll found out what kind of man I am when steel meets the bone." He grunts, spitting into the dirt. "For faith," he growls, his decision made, "And let the Lord judge the rest." His resolve was the iron, his faith the anvil. He turns his horse towards the coming storm.

Tristan watched the smaller hand of the time-keeping device in the Chapel of St. Edmond inch closer to midnight. He could scarcely move for his delirium and his crushed leg. The thunderous chaos on the outside had stopped. Only the chill remained. That and the groaning of the Bulwark automaton of the Holy Army which guarded Salvo. Later, when the prognosis from the physician was clear, he wondered on what could have been achieved with his previous mobility. Later still, from the confines of his bed, between fevers, he wrote a series of letters. They all held the same message: Salvo was in peril. With it, the small light of the True Faith in the far east. He called for aid.

Tristan patted Randir on the back with an approving nod. “In all my years, might has always made right. A lawyer can write a thousand letters, but a swordsman only has to strike once. The Tribunal is an ugly business, but it delivers justice. It is up to God to determine the righteous. Men forget quickly.” He reflected, "Now get back to the ranch and breed me some cows."

Tristan read the letters carefully when they came to him at the crack of dawn. On his morning stroll he contemplated the meaning of ‘Baron’. He knew his essential duties, of course. But what of matters of the soul? Did being a Baron this late in life give him any special qualities? He thought not: a title such as this is what you make it. He would choose to live it as the Scroll of Virtue dictated. It was his sacred duty. He had made a covenant with the Bishop that he would bring the word of the Lord to these lands. As the wind whistled against the reeds and the swamp groaned back at him he thought this was a thing easier said than done.

Tristan found himself standing at the edge of the marshes. A heron landed nearby. Now old and of limited mobility, he wished that he too could soar. But wanting was improper, impious. He chastised himself and folded his hands behind his back. This island of Canondom was as the cool breeze to the desert flame. It was his mission to cleanse and bring pious tranquility to his swamp. He made sure to give his thanks to his men when he saw them again.

—+— I. Whitespire, 1992 The bells of Whitespire woke him from sleep. A hot breeze swept through his small dormitory within the Bastille. An abrupt sense of peril spurred him to his feet. He could hear the Royal troopers outside his room scatter along the corridor. A soft hiss took him to his window. As he threw open the shutters it climbed to a roar. Pillars of yellow and blue fire engulfed the city in front of him. A blinding jet of the elements threw themselves up at the heavens. The ferocious brilliance of the scene kept him lingering there for a moment longer than he should have. A dirty plume of molten ash roared towards him and he threw a protective arm over his face. But it was too late, and he fell to the floor. In the finite moments before he fell into unconsciousness he watched as the skin of his cheekbone bubbled and the sleeve of his undergarment melted into his arm. He drew in a breath of sulphur and heat as his vision faded to darkness. When he woke again it was to an incredible pain which wracked his body senseless. He did not know where he was, but he reasoned even then that it could not have been his dormitory. He heard a cacophony of agony, reassurance, and panic. He saw a woman in the white cloth of a surgeon's gown. His body pulled him back into darkness. —+— II. Merryweather, 1993 In what felt like a moment he returned to the room, which now held a tranquil quiet only punctuated by the drip of a nearby faucet. His vision was different, but he felt calmer to see a strip of dust motes pierced by the light of the sun. The dust concealed behind it a crimson raven set upon a black shield. Merryweather. House Alstreim. The agony hit him like a bolt as he sat up straight. He reeled from the action and cried. The same woman he had seen in uniform appeared above him. She looked down like a matron. He did not bother to ask where he was, because he knew already, nor why he was there. The fires licked at his memory. ‘Keep still. Your body heals. We have done the best we can for you.’ She explained, frowning, ‘You were lucky.’ He wanted to ask her about his family. He wanted to ask what happened. He wanted to tell her what he had seen. But he could not find the will to speak, so she continued, ‘We had to rip apart your clothes. Much of it had stuck.’ The woman crossed her arms, ‘I am afraid that you may be at a higher risk of infection. We can give you some ointment, but not a lot.’ He considered his words carefully. He did not want to waste her time. He murmured a simple, ‘Thank you.’ ‘You have suffered a great injury, but you will need to recover quickly. We do not have enough beds, and you are now a lower priority.’ She brought her lips together. She leant down to touch his arm. It seemed uncomfortable to her. ‘Some of the damage was insurmountable. You have lost use of your eye. I am sorry.’ She quickly stood straight, not wanting to dally around the subject for any longer. —+— II. Portoregne, 1993 Soon enough he had learned to walk again. Though the pain was intense, it was mostly periodical. He could not hear well in his right ear, where he had also lost his eye. The skin had folded in on itself as it healed. He did not lament his misfortune and felt lucky to be alive. Once he was fit enough, he ventured out from Merryweather. If only cautiously; if only briefly. The city was black and the fires had only recently extinguished. There were rumours that petty lords had taken hold of the rubble and that others hostile to the king had settled in the north-west. He learned that his mother had died from a coughing sickness while he was in recovery. With none left to keep him, he mourned and saved for passage across the Silver Sea. He watched the burnt out city disappear on the horizon as he thought up a new name, a new destiny. His path led to the south. When he landed at Portoregne an inspection officer asked for his identity. “Abraham.” He replied.

“It is a sorry sight to see a king so caught between two worlds. I pity him. Nevertheless, he is an oathbreaker. And says things he knows to be untrue to justify such a perilous act. That is sadder still.” Tristan commented from afar.

F/W to: HRH Queen Dowager 23rd Sigismund’s End, 1989 Tristan de Rennes Tremazan, The Marshlands Your Royal Highness, It is to my great sadness that I learned of your letter to the Pontiff this past Saint’s Day. Your family matters are your own, and I will not begrudge a mother so clearly in a state of lamentation on the fate of her family, one she was so deeply involved in and had such a great hand in creating. I write simply to ask you to keep my late brother's name out of your mouth and away from your pen. I will remind you that my brother died a Cardinal, so the fitting address in the future is ‘His Eminence’. I will now move to your specific accusations on my late brother. Firstly, he was as Aaunish as I am, which is to say not at all. Our settlement in the country is only due to the intercession of your late husband His Majesty of beloved memory. If you would accuse my brother of fanaticism of any kind, it is to His late Majesty as the man who had him freed from the prisons of Gwynon. I need not address the claims of thievery and intrigue, as I believe you may have confused him with your own kinsmen. Secondly, you highlight that only James ‘Whitespire’ was not taught by my brother. That seems to me to be quite unlikely indeed. If you had hopes of him taking the cloth of priesthood, then why would you not have him taught by a priest, as my late brother Jean was? It strikes me either as a poor recollection of the past — a certain curse of your ilk as you yourself recognise — or an attempt to confuse the reader of your public petition, the Pontiff. I cannot guess at the content of your heart or the motivation of your pen, but it strikes me to be more likely that you attempt to conceal that all of your children were treated equally and taught equally by the same man or group of individuals. Their sins are their own, and any crimes are firmly on their own shoulders. I say respectfully now what I have alluded to above, Your Highness, that you have no right to speak of my late brother in the way that you do. Yet, I believe the thrust of your letter is something of far more consequence than your rather circumstantial examples imply. You have taken a quarrel between kin, indeed your quarrel with your firstborn son and your grandson, and have made it into an excuse for the disenfranchisement, displacement, or even death of an entire race of peoples. As I have made clear to you above, I am not Aaunish, not by birth, but I will zealously defend the right of any peoples to exist. For the sake of the love that you bore the young Edmund as your playmate, that of your late husband, and indeed that which you must still feel for your estranged family, I implore Your Highness to think past the acrimonious noise and the conflicts of the young and to see more objectively in the future. Yours sincerely, Tristan de Rennes

Tristan de Rennes could send his brother letters no more, nor could he look over to him to comment on matters of foreign affairs. For all the family he had known for many years was gone now, denied his due dignity in his final weeks. His world shattered beneath him.

"Can't you people just let a woman own her own actions without assuming responsibilty by her husband? It's getting a little strange." Private Baldrick grimaced at the toy soldier.

Private Baldrick looks upon the Queen with a newfound appreciation for her insurmountable aura.

Baldrick decides to read no further from this particular satire.

Baldrick tries and fails to read the extreme cursive which was clearly too intelligent for it to be legible.

The newly minted Private Baldrick of the RSA puts down his plough and picks up his sword. For King and country, or to glorious martyrdom. This was the only way.

Baldrick came across the poem on the road. He squinted and stared. After a while he remembered he could not read, but he was sure that the poem would have been a masterpiece had he been able to.

A barely literate peasant scribbles his details down hastily. NAME: Baldrick AGE: Twentey sumthing LOCATION OF ORDINARY RESIDENCE: Ennswerp BEST MEANS OF CONTACT: Talking to me